


A Fist, Full Of Force!

by adam_42_man



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Original Trilogy, Star Wars Prequel Trilogy
Genre: Alternate Universe - Boxing, Angst, Big business, Boxing & Fisticuffs, Corruption, F/F, F/M, Love Triangles, M/M, Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-01
Updated: 2020-07-01
Packaged: 2021-03-05 03:01:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 3,261
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25017421
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/adam_42_man/pseuds/adam_42_man
Summary: A highly self indulgent boxing au centred around the original trilogy will feature flashbacks to the prequels.Luke Skywalker is the Newest and Only member of the Rebel Force Academy. He's going to need to work his way through the rankings if wants to be the galaxies best cruiserweight.A TALE OF Shocking familial turns, plans of global domination, and.......MURDER!
Relationships: Padmé Amidala/Anakin Skywalker, Padmé Amidala/Obi-Wan Kenobi/Anakin Skywalker
Comments: 4
Kudos: 3





	1. A New Hope

**Author's Note:**

> I'll be using 1-2-3 as boxing notation and any numbers will be written i.e one, two, three. The full list of notations can be found at the bottom.

A long time ago, in a galaxy far far away……….

Twin suns blasted the sand strewn desert planet of Tatooine. Colossal dust clouds blew through a particularly empty stretch of land. A being in a great brown cloak sat, meditating atop a nearby patch of rocky terrain letting the ambient sound wash over him. 

The storm resonated within itself, pitch amplified, frequencies stacked, doubled. It had grown more violent with each whirl, the blades sharpened, huge swathes of land were ripped apart like a child in a sandbox. Nature's best impression of a blender approached the hooded figure, engulfed him in mere seconds, then passed before you could call for help. Miraculously or so it would seem, the man survived apparently unphased by the calamity that had just befallen him.

Half an hour or so after the storm departed, the mystery shrouded entity stood, brushed off a shockingly small amount of dirt, and finally continued towards their destination. The steps unhurried, knowing, and determined.

Luke Skywalkers' X-34 thrummed across the land at a safe, steady, speed. Nerves picked up. Excitement spread over Luke like an ion blast scrambling a ship's systems. knuckles clenched harder around the steering wheel, practically white from the lack of circulation. If you were to examine the hair on the back of the young man's arm you would see it prickled up, standing at full attention. He was finally going to the R.F.A, the Rebel Force Academy. This had been his dream ever since he caught an old Kenobi fight on the holonet.  
His target, Toshi station was less that twenty sand crawlers away. He steeled his determination.

Slap, slap, thud. Slap, slap, thud. Slap, slap, thud. 1-2-3, 1-2-3, 1-2-3, left right left, jab cross left hook. The rhythmic beat of leather on leather echoed through a near empty hall, the sole exception was the vendor of bag beat-downs, he was giving them away if the pile of shredded stitching in the corner was any indication. 

A battered brown cloak hung alone, nineteen unused hooks glimmered vying for attention that was never given. The cloak rack was to the immediate right of the door, to the doors, left was a small free weights section.

The free weights section was rather outdated even for Tattooines Jawa salvaged tech emporium. The weights were physical. Each plate, each bar, each bench occupied real space.

The absence of grav weights, suspension racks, and electrical resistors would horrify the new generation of stim heads who chased only artificial results. To the veteran or the purist it was a sign of a kindred spirit, one who sought the most simplistic urge. Lift. Big.Thing.

Two treadmills equipped with some low level monitoring equipment gathered cobwebs. The owner preferred to do their cardio under the baking heat, where the sand threatened to burn you for the crime of dallying. The scuffs on the floor adjacent proved repeated use of a skipping rope. 

Across the hall from the door was the director's office and presumed residence. It looked unfriendly and inviting like most of the gym. 

The left and right walls were littered with various punching bags of all shapes and sizes, the most prevalent being the heavy bag. Most of if not all of the bags were scarred and patched up, evident of some heavy work and some heavier punches.

In the centre of all, reverently lit and remarkably pristine in comparison to the rest of the equipment, was the ring. Perfectly circular, meticulously tightened ropes, the canvas evened and smoothed with a fanatics practice. 

Following the public outcry in the aftermath of the Deft Evader Vs Count "The Count" Dooku at the Coruscant Senate Hall. Corners were removed from rings for providing an unfair advantage to one side and the main contributor to that tragic end.

The inhabitant of the gym worked the bag, he was steady and relentless. Muscles twitched and reacted to electrical commands bellowed by his brain. Fibres stretched, contorted, and snapped. Providing areas of new growth. It reinforced his weapons even as he practiced the age old movements. 1-2-3, 1-2-3, 2-4, 1-3. Step here, twist there, rotate that more, small calculations and adjustments blended together. The tempo increased, the pauses lessened 1-2-3-1-2-3, 2-4-1-3. 

Slam! The door flew open and cracked into the wall behind it much to the shock, horror, and shame of the opener. "Oh my gosh, Coach Ben I'm so very sorry about the door." The young man, his tone painted deeply with regret, almost screeched. 

The former nameless entity pivoted on his lead foot, turning to the entrant, he only slowed down the punches but carried on with his workout. "Worry not young Skywalker, I knew this day would come. Now are you sure your aunt and uncle approve?" Rasped a voice like the desert. Ben had known the pair of moisture farmers for longer than Luke had walked, he was sure they would never crack. 

"Yes!" Luke sighed a dream like haze clouded his eyes for a second. "Uncle Owen gave in this morning, he said something about doing it while I was still safe under his roof". The young man bounced on the spot, excitement poorly constrained. His eyes darted from: equipment, to the ring, to the old man, to the equipment again on a constant loop not wanting to miss a single detail; his sight finally settled on the intricate dance of footwork and hand speed that was demonstrated by a master of the practice. 

"We'll get in and get changed into your running gear unless you plan on running in that." Ben ordered gesturing to Luke's garb with an unnatural nod for the sequence. The pugilist pivoted back to his original position. Threw an alternating hook-uppercut combination and front shoulder rolled out, defensive responsibilities maintained on the retreat. Back foot first a traditional lateral exit.

Flabbergasted, the apprentice fumbled with the bag he dropped as he entered the room. Muffled sounds of fabric emerged as Luke pulled the requested items out. If it weren't for his burning desire to fight, Luke would have had A very respectable career as a quick change artist.

With as few words as that the two proceeded to the surrounding sand dunes, monstrous piles of silica and who knew what else had clumped together forming a natural wind barrier around Toshi Station. The pair stopped at the foot of the ascent.

"Shoes off young Skywalker, you will need the extra grip. Just don't burn your feet."  
"I'm running up this?" Bewildered by the immense task ahead of him. Luke turned to Old Ben. Old Ben was already a quarter of the way up the dune.

Several hours and several buckets of sweat later Luke Skywalker puked. The stress and exertion from the exercise had become too much so his body rebelled, violently. "Good work, Luke. This was a test and you've passed most fabulously." Ben Kenobi reassured the young man who had collapsed to his knees. A calloused battle hardened hand came to rest on Luke's heaving shoulders a galactic symbol of companionship.

"Thank…… you…… Ben .." Gasped the unknowing Jedi " Aunt….. Beru.… Asked…. Dinner…… tonight?" Ben looked like he was about to refuse, "she says as thanks for taking me in." Ben made the fatal mistake of catching Luke's tried and true puppy dog eyes. He couldn't say no to that. The two set out in comfortable silence

Conversation had been broached naturally during the subjective hell Obi Wan insisted was training and the two fell into a natural rapport. It was all too familiar for the old man whose heart panged with nostalgia and regret. Of course the kid reminded him of another Skywalker he knew less than twenty years ago. Thankfully for Obi wan Luke was a diligent pilot and kept his eyes and ears to the road. This gave him some time to reminisce.


	2. Anakin enters the scene

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Obi wans memories anakins first day at the Rebel Flex academy
> 
> It gets a tiny bit steamy here
> 
> I'm planning on throwing in a flash back chapter between each of the main chapters because I got thinking about the world way too much.

I watched as the young man strode confidently through the Jedi flex Academy. His rat tail and roguish face infuriated me for reasons I would later understand. I wanted to wipe that smirk right off of his face or kiss it.... Confusion flooded my body, it felt sluggish and lethargic, I could do nothing as this stranger walked up and challenged my master to a fight. My confusion deepened as the person I trusted most gave the man a once over and tossed him some headgear. The challenger laughed, briefly, then put the head gear down.

Why was Qui-Gon pointing at me? This thought jogged me from my confused state. It took me a second, finally I realised he was asking me to go in his stead. It looked like I was going to get my chance earlier than anticipated. I tightened the straps on my gloves and entered the sparring ring. 

"Obi Wan, this young contender has politely implied he doesn't need headgear, would you care to show him where he is wrong?" Anxieties crashed down around me with that statement. My father,my my mentor not father, trusted me this much? I knew I couldn't let him down, could i!?

He bopped me lightly on the forehead. "You'll be fine kiddo, I can see his boxing sense is sharp but he's got no practice, no training. Just show him the basics." Qui Gon's' basic assessment of my opponent killed the fear as it sprouted, replacing it with feelings of love and trust.

I smiled at him then, finally looking at the man for real. Mr Gin with his scraggly beard and welcoming smile. The man who had given me a sense of self. He was older now, his age finally showed in the streaks of grey that now distinguished his beard. And he trusted me. I turned about, finally stared into the eyes of someone that was about to become a lifelong friend, maybe more.

Jet black pupils widened and narrowed as my foe stared back, narrowing in, focusing. I couldn't stop myself from being caught in the depths of those, intense, shining, blue irises, they were breathtaking. My objective falters, a blush threatened its appearance, then I see that damned smirk again. The bell rings, I set to the task I was given.

The punk was quick, nimble on his feet, and had the most infuriating head movement. I hunkered behind a simple cross guard as his shots peppered off me, his simple minded efforts to outbox me as he circled left, the punches left no impact.

It was the third round, the pattern to his movements became more and more evident. I adjusted, I faked a stumble there, I dropped my guard here, I invited the cross. He snapped at it.

The stumble I took turned into a step then a duck. His cross whiffed like a lance piercing nothing but air. I planted my lead foot firmly then swiveled it inwards, letting the motion transfer up my body. I turn my hips into the action adding to the force and finally raised my arm toward the sky as my uppercut collided cleanly with the centre point of his chin. the kinetic energy exploded. He went down swinging. I learned something new today, I liked this kid.


	3. Just a bit of lawlessness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some new faces are introduced and we get our first look at the illegal side of fighting.

"I hope you kriffing die, Blaster!" Catcalls and insults hurtled around the arena. A deafening concoction of hate, jealousy, and bloodlust.

Tattooines underground fight scene was, to say the least, brutal. Funded by the mob boss Jabba, it placed emphasis on violence, aggression, and gore. Victors would often find a nice bonus in their purse. Maim, blind, kill, all and more would relinquish hidden funds from the barbarous Hutt.

Galactic standard rules had been enforced so long ago no one could remember when they were introduced. The Hutts had fixed fights for just as long maybe longer.

However, Galactic standard rules, along with the books they were written in, were thrown out at Jabbas' Palace. The ring had been replaced with a general purpose cage.

Inside the cage were two clearly mismatched combatants. Two predators barely restrained, who chomped at the bit, ready to let their claws rip each other apart.

The canvas was made of a durable synthetic weave with a similar feel to that of rough spun cotton, It was stained with various splatters marks and pools of blood. Rusted browns, faded and broken, created a twisted camouflage pattern with the fresh, vivid, reds that danced and skittered across the mat.

"I'm going to take your zero, Blaster!"

The voice belonged to a squattish heavyweight in his mid thirties, he was muscled in a vague way, underneath several years of fat. He stood right foot forward, a classic sithpaw stance. His guard was lowered, energy conserved in anticipation of the bell.

"You don't know what you're in for!" He jeered, his voice boomed with passion, malice, and arrogance. According to the technical record he was correct, his opponent had never faced footing like his own.

"You wish, slimeball"

Tall, lean, athletic. The Blaster was in complete antithesis to the heavyweight. Most likely a Super featherweight although it was hard to tell under the tight compression suit. this match would never have been sanctioned under galactic standard rules, the weight difference was too massive.

Ding! Ding! Ding! The first round commenced.

The snakelike creature known as Jabba The Hutt bellowed his approval for the bloodbath below. His food would have been better served in a trough. His drinks spilled over the crowd, it covered them with the sickly sweet scent of alcohol, thick viscous droplets clung to the patronage.

"Blast them! Smash his liver out!" Screamed an obvious fanatic. A Spicer based on his ragged clothes and blood cracked eyes.

The Organ Blaster circled their to their opponents left, outboxing in its most simple form. They flashed inside of their victims' guard, a quick L step sliced off their escape path. The brutal uppercut landed, its home found under the man's chin.

The out of shape boxers' head snapped backwards. Smash. His back collided with the canvas moments later.

"Come on! Give me a show, Blaster!"  
"Play with them next time, for Farks sake!"

A chorus of boos and jeers assailed the cage. The crowd clearly unhappy with the efficient display of skill.

"Sit your karking butt down!" The figure stalked away from their prey. They started to circle, as the long count echoed around the maximum occupancy crowd.

"I paid good money for these seats. I demand blood!" A mottled Deveronian lamented from the front row. "I knew I should have booked the Tusken Raider Rumble"

The hunter observed the remarks and roared. "Who will be my next victim?!" The crowd whooped and hollered in appreciation of the local town champ.

Rustle rustle, The Deveronian left. The victor observed this, smirked, and returned to amping up the crowd.

No one knew who the champ was, they always covered up fully in the ring. Only defined muscles could be learned of from the skin tight black stealth suit. The protrusions around the skull pointed at them not being entirely human.

The count stopped. Silence permeated the air for all of two seconds, then…...

"The Organ Blaster has smashed and dashed another fine competitor into a palpable bloody mess!" Nasal tones droned across the buildings' internal holonet, the excitement in their voice built with each word.

"When will their reign of terror end?! Of the Blasters last ten opponents only one has stayed out of a Bacta tank!" As the announcer hyped up the undefeated warrior, a man accompanied by what appeared to be a teddy bear, come horribly accurate to life, approached the cage.

The man's fingers intertwined with spaces in the cagings' mesh. He rattled it, briefly, as he called out "Hey kid, you looking for a new gym?"

"No." The voice distorted, electrical interferences disguised the owners' true identity and their emotions. "I can't let anyone close, not yet." Secretive thoughts crowded the combatants' head, "I have to expose them."

"Well when you are, come see me. Your style of fighting really doesn't suit you." The gruff man dismissed, a quick heel turn and the pair left.

With that, the nights' proceedings wrapped up as usual. The take from the door was split, the stands wiped and cleaned. Finally the Blasters' opponent signup was posted, unsurprisingly there were no new names on the list.

Dewback mounted, The Organ Blaster departed. Ten standard units outside Mos Eisley, finally they took off their masks. They allowed the saline beads of liquid to fall from their eyes momentarily, the feeling of violence always left them broken, inhuman.

Dark brown eyes, that sparkled with sadness, surveyed an all too familiar landscape, finally they caught sight of it. A lambda class shuttle moved through the air, unnervingly silent for a ship it's size.

After the headwrap was removed, bundles of deep brunette hair fell out, tangled and knotted from the abuse of being wrapped up. "I wish I was allowed to get rid of this." hands combed roughly through the formerly thick locks and detangled the worst of the dreadlocks.

"Remain calm, use him." This thought ricocheted around their skull. The shrouded figure sealed their resolve, and eventually wiped the tears from their eyes. "No weaknesses."

The silent mass approached, it blocked the light from the sky and cast a great shadow upon the prize fighter. The shadow of the ship reflected the darkness in the champions heart.

The ship landed no more than twenty metres away. The gang plank lowered. "You have done well, my daughter. Your mother would be proud." Click hisssss, click hisssss, clunk wooooosh. The compliment stung more than any punch could.


	4. It's tragic, really.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anakins p.o.v this chapter we get to see him swoon over obi wan

I woke with a start, the ceiling above me was unfamiliar. Why was I wet? I rolled over to see a bearded man with a bucket. Wait, did I just lose a fight? I rolled to my other side where my suspicions were confirmed. 

"Would you like to go again?" The sun beaten beauty was mocking me. He had to be. 

"Don't you know who I am?!" I screamed as I jumped to my feet. My world spun around me as my traitorous legs morphed into jelly. I wobbled and grabbed the ropes for stability, I threw them the filthiest look I could muster.

"Obi, you really didn't have to hit him that hard you know?" Great now I was being defended.  
"I'm Anakin Skywalker, greatest podracer this side of the disk!" the retort jumped from my mouth before I could stop it, but that should shut them up long enough for my head to stop spinning.

They started to laugh. I had no response to this, unless you count my legs collapsing from under me, however after the beat down I had been given it was to be expected. 

A red gloved hand appeared in front of me. I looked into the face of the man who had just ruined my life. God damn, I made the mistake of looking into his eyes. Those eyes could drag me to the dark side and back. 

I can tell a lot about a person from their eyes, if most eyes held a short story these eyes would tell a tragedy. The subject of the tragedy would be myself and the hero was this shining eyed individual whose blue grey eyes could cast out the darkest thoughts from anyone's heart. The hero's eyes: sharp, aware, compassionate, caring, finally tinged with a hint of mischief.

If my assailant's rueful smile said anything it was simply this; I would be enjoying myself, in more ways than one.

**Author's Note:**

> All combinations are numbered on an orthodox state switch the odd and even numbers for southpaw  
> 1-Jab  
> 2-Cross  
> 3-Left Hook  
> 4-Right Hook  
> 5-Left Uppercut  
> 6-Right Uppercut


End file.
